He tore her bra.

His hand had moved up under the remaining fabric of her dress at some point and found the clasp of it — cheap, utilitarian, the same practical logic as the panty — and torn it with the same clean single motion, the elastic snapping, the cups falling loose, and the full weight of her breasts swinging free.

She was not small.

The screens — all one hundred of them — reflected the sudden jolt and swing of her chest as the bra went, the weight of them dropping into unimpeded motion with the next stroke of his hips, the fullness of them catching the amber light as they bounced forward and back.

She made a sound that was not entirely anger.

"Don’t you—" She grabbed at the fabric with one hand, trying to pull it back, but he was already there — both hands leaving her waist, both palms cupping the weight of her, and she lost her balance, her hands flying back to his shoulders to keep from falling, which put her chest directly into his hands.

He squeezed.

Both of them — his fingers sinking into the warmth and density of her, the full, substantial weight of her filling his palms and overflowing, and she arched backward with a sound that was genuinely not anger, not even close to anger, the involuntary arch of a back responding to stimulation without asking permission first.

"Ngh—don’t touch— AHH—"

His thumbs found her nipples.

She was already hard — had been, she realized with mortified fury, since before the panel, since before the panty had been torn, since the pheromones had reached their operational density in her blood — and when his thumbs pressed over them, rolling, pinching with the specific, calibrated pressure of someone who had done this before and had opinions about what worked, her arms locked around his neck and her hips, against every instruction she was sending them, rolled forward.

Pah.

"HnnnGGHH— NGH—" 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Pah. Pah.

"—AHh—stop— STOP—ahhnn—"

He increased the pace.

Not a dramatic shift — incremental, the way a river increases, each stroke a fraction faster than the last, each descent a fraction harder, the rhythm building with the patient certainty of something that had been heading toward this point from the beginning and was simply now arriving.

The wet sounds grew louder.

The blood had thinned now — the evidence of her first time mixing with the slick, unavoidable evidence of her body’s current operational status, the involuntary arousal she had been refusing to name running clear and continuous, coating the shaft of him, dripping down the scarred surface of her left thigh, pattering in thin, warm threads against the floor.

She was shaking.

Not with cold. Not with pain — the pain was still there, a bone-deep ache at the place where he kept reaching the deepest point of her, but it had been joined by something else, something warm and terrible and spreading, a heat that her pheromone-soaked blood was amplifying, that her body was processing and reporting and that she was refusing, absolutely refusing, to acknowledge—

His face lowered toward her chest.

She felt his breath on her nipple before she felt his mouth, the warm exhale of a man who had very specific intentions, and she tightened her arms around his neck and said— "Don’t you dare—"

His mouth closed over her breast.

The suction was immediate — deep, deliberate, his lips sealing around her areola with the pull of a man who was going to stay there, his tongue pressing against the hard point of her nipple, and the sensation went directly from her chest to her lower belly like a circuit completing, the arch of her back becoming involuntary and total.

"HAaaAANNGGHH~~!!"

Pah! Pah! Pah!

He was fucking her and sucking her simultaneously — her body arching between both points of contact, his hips driving up as his mouth pulled down, the counterpoint of it catching her nervous system in a crossfire it had absolutely no defense against, every upward stroke of his cock pressing against her womb while his mouth sent corresponding fire through her chest.

Her nails dug into the back of his neck.

"S-stop— I can’t— you— NGHH— AHH~~!"

He switched breasts.

The shift of his mouth — from the left to the right, the brief cold of saliva-wet skin exposed to air before his lips found the other nipple and pulled — made her gasp with a sound so undignified she immediately hated herself for it, the sound escaping before her throat could catch it.

Her hips were moving.

She became aware of this with the specific, cold-water clarity of a woman discovering her own body has been conducting negotiations without her — her hips rolling, the stumps of her thighs pressing against his sides, her weight working with the stroke of his thrusts instead of against them, the subtle adjustment of a body that had found the angle it needed.

She stopped.

He felt her stop.

He looked up from her chest.

Met her eyes.

"Come on," he said, against the wet skin of her breast, his breath warm and his voice carrying the particular, maddening warmth of a man who was entirely unruffled. "Miss Queen." His hips rolled up, slow, deliberate, finding the deepest point of her. She gasped. He smiled against her skin. "Your voice is delicious too. I’d hate to be the only one enjoying this."

"You—" Her voice was thoroughly, irreparably broken. "You absolute—nghh—bastard, I will—"

His hand moved.

Up, along her arm, capturing her wrist. Then her other wrist. Then both — pressing them together, raising them, until her arms were above her head, her wrists caught in one of his hands, her entire upper body stretching with the motion, her breasts lifting with the arch of her extended arms, his mouth finding the underside of her left breast in the new position and dragging slowly upward.

She was completely in his hands.

Wrists above her head. Body suspended by his grip and his cock inside her. Nothing to push against. Nothing to brace against. Nothing to grab except his shoulders, and he was holding her wrists.

Pah! Pah! Pah!

"AAAHH— NGH— ANGHH~~!"

"Bastard—! Y-you—aahhnn—let go of my—HAAA—!"